Yahrzeit
by sidewinder
Summary: John remembers Sarah Logan...in his own way. Fin helps, in his way, too. (Part of my "Spaces In Between" series; read it as either Munch & Fin friendship or pre-slash; your choice.)


_Author's Notes: Characters property of NBC/Dick Wolf. This story was written purely for fun and not for profit. Set during season two, closely following "Manhunt" but referencing heavily the season one episode "Remorse" (from which some sections of dialog are quoted.) You can choose to read this as either Munch & Fin friendship or pre-slash, given the series of stories to which it belongs._

* * *

 ** _"...whoever grieves excessively is really grieving for someone else."_**

 _April 25, 2001_

"Yo, John."

"What."

"How do you spell 'aneurysm'?"

John peered over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows raised at his partner. "What am I, your personal dictionary?"

"No, but I thought you were mister know-it-all 'round here. Not sure this looks right on the report." Fin frowned at the typewritten page in front of him. Why was it that words could sometimes look so weird when written out, when you stopped to think about them for too long? Maybe he was simply going cross-eyed from so many hours spent staring at files today.

"Aneurysm. A. N. E. U. R. Y. S. M. Noun. From the Greek _aneurysma_ , meaning dilation. Used in a sentence: 'One of these days, I swear my partner is going to give me an aneurysm'."

"I just asked for the spelling. Didn't need the grammar lecture."

"Etymology and grammar, to be precise. A two for one deal. You're welcome."

"Okay. Whatever. Thank you." Fin sighed and corrected the typo on his report. He then moved on to another project waiting for him, deciding next time he'd let any possible spelling mistakes in it slide. Meanwhile, John went back to the jenga-like tower of papers stacked up in his workspace, going through the pages of one especially thick file while occasionally making highly annoying tapping noises with his pen against the desk.

Such was the not-so-glamorous side of police work.

Their week had so far been an uneventful one, mostly spent providing backup on a bizarre case Benson and Stabler had caught involving a woman's body found buried in a building courtyard alongside sexual fetish paraphernalia. Those two detectives were currently over in Jersey trying to tie up loose ends in that investigation, leaving Fin and his partner on desk duty if something else came up that needed immediate attention.

Which meant for the most part dealing with the backlog of never-ending departmental paperwork and taking calls. And for Fin, a day stuck in the squadroom would also normally mean rolling his eyes a lot at his partner's crackpot theories and nonstop ramblings, wishing John would simply shut up once in a while and learn to appreciate the beauty of quietness for a change.

But that was the weird thing; John _was_ being quiet today. Unusually quiet. So quiet that Fin was growing unnerved and had found himself trying to draw the typically loquacious man to talk to him some _more._

"Hell must have frozen over," Fin grumbled to himself.

The tedious hours had stretched on through the day, John not even responding with any enthusiasm to Fin's offer of going out for lunch, or even having Fin bring him back something from the deli down the block. He remained intent on that one large file he kept going back to, over and over, which Fin couldn't get a look at but he had a sneaking suspicion wasn't related to any of their current cases—those all seemed to have ended up on Fin's desk to clean up.

Five o'clock rolled around at long last, although at SVU that usually only meant quitting time for the clericals and basic support staff. Detectives kept their own hours and generally that meant until much later in the evening. But as Cragen passed by their desks on his way to the coffee station, John looked up at him and said, "Captain, mind if I take off early tonight?"

"You got a hot date or something?" Fin asked.

"Nothing nearly as fortuitous, but I do have somewhere I need to be in an hour or so."

The captain nodded. "Not a problem, John. Anything comes up..."

"You'll be sure to call me, I know. Thanks."

John got up and Fin watched him, curious if his partner would reveal anything about his mysterious evening plans. But he only glanced briefly over at Fin as he grabbed his coat and prepared to leave, tossing him a casual, "See you in the morning" on his way out.

"Yeah. See you."

This _definitely_ wasn't the John Munch that Fin had gotten used to these past months—especially not since their recent journeys together through upstate New York, Canada and back on the trail of a vicious serial killer. That had been the most brutal case Fin had been on since his transfer here, and he'd developed a much greater respect for his partner over the course of the hunt for Darryl Kern. Seeing how desperate John had been to take down that son of a bitch and provide some kind of closure for his one victim who'd managed to escape, for the many others they'd found butchered and buried outside his hunting cabin...Fin had realized there was another side to John than his typical sarcasm and dark humor revealed.

Until then, Fin had been determined to keep his new partner at arm's length, not wanting to get attached, not wanting to care about someone else who might only end up dead in the line of duty. But for the past few days it felt as though John was the one keeping his distance and Fin couldn't figure out why that was. Had he said something, done something to piss him off? Maybe _not_ said or done something that he should have? Fin didn't really have a clue and it was starting to annoy the hell out of him. He didn't like opening himself up a little bit to the possibility of a real friendship only to be shut out cold.

Maybe, he thought, he might find some clue in that file John had been so obsessed with all day. As the office noise and activity began to slow down for the approaching evening, Fin got up and walked around to his partner's desk, taking a seat in his chair. He tried to be discreet as he opened the top drawer, where he'd seen John store the file before leaving. He carefully lifted it out and brought it over to his own workspace to read.

Opening the manila folder, Fin found the standard notes and reports were all there beneath a folded copy of an edition of the _Daily News,_ already starting to feel fragile with age. A large photograph of woman's smiling face was set off by the bold headline:

 **SARAH'S FINAL MOMENT**

 **A "Hero to Women Everywhere"**

 **WPKW Reporter Sarah Logan Tragically Killed in Apparent Revenge Bombing**

 _Sarah Logan_...Fin remembered that name, especially seeing it alongside her picture. Logan had been a real star in the making, a beautiful local news reporter who'd seemed on track for major network success. She'd made waves and caught national attention by being brave enough to frankly discuss her rape on the air, encouraging other women to come out and talk about their own assaults without shame.

That was all before Fin had transferred to SVU so he'd never followed the specifics of her case. But certainly everyone on the force had heard about what happened to her; you couldn't live in New York at the time without hearing about it. After all, it wasn't every day that a star reporter blown to pieces (by the graphic descriptions circulating out of the bomb squad) in her own apartment.

What Fin hadn't realized until now, and what would have meant nothing to him at the time, was that John had been the primary on Sarah's case. The notes, the strange details were all there and much of it in his partner's handwriting: how she'd been assaulted and raped by two unknown men, one of whom was eventually identified and brought to trial after Sarah's on-air description helped open a new lead. How Sarah had been killed on the evening after that first day in court, just minutes before she was supposed to be back in her studio for a special report on her case.

At the time the main suspect in the bombing had of course been the second rapist who was still on the loose. But as the investigation had continued, it turned out that the bombing was by a third party, the work of a deranged fan who couldn't stand how Sarah had changed, in his perception, since her assault.

Fin wondered why John was revisiting this case today. As far as the details within the file revealed, everything had been closed quickly after the bomber had been brought in and readily made a full confession. But as Fin put the pages back in careful order, returning the original newspaper about Sarah's death to the top of the pile, he glanced at the date under the _News_ banner.

April 26, 2000. Tomorrow was the 26th.

Sarah had died a year ago today. Suddenly everything began to make sense.

Fin glanced over the file once more to go over the details of the time and place it had occurred. Then he returned the file to John's desk and sorted out his own outstanding paperwork, convincing himself there was nothing there that couldn't wait until the morning. He grabbed his coat and headed to the captain's office, knocking gently on the open door.

"Come in."

"Captain, if it's all right I think I'm gonna call it an early night as well."

"Somewhere you need to be tonight?"

"Yeah. With a friend who I think could use the company."

Cragen sat back in his chair, studying Fin for a moment before giving him a knowing look and a small, somewhat sad smile. "I think that you're right."

* * *

 _"Hey, John. Did you see my piece?"_  
 _"I did. It was gutsy and eloquent."_  
 _"Oh, well, I'll have to put that on my epitaph someday: 'Here lies Sarah Logan, gutsy and eloquent'."_

John stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at the doorway leading into the old, nondescript brownstone. If you didn't know what had happened here a year ago, there truly was no way to tell now. Necessary repairs had been made, the exterior repainted, windows replaced in the first floor apartment where Sarah had lived...

Where she had died.

Had he been expecting anything else? No, not really. Although some part of him had wondered if anyone other than himself would come out to remember her today. Leave some kind of small memorial outside the building, as her fans and supporters had done for weeks after the bombing. All those many people who had sent her fan mail after she started speaking out about her rape, saying they'd never forget her and her bravery, where were they now?

They'd all moved on, of course. It was the way things went. A tragedy rocks the city one day, so terrible and shocking. But that only lasts until the next tragedy comes along and all is forgotten about the first. Front page headline to a back page footnote by the time the courts are ready to deliver justice. Who could remember these things?

"I remember you, Sarah," John said quietly, looking down at the steps when he couldn't stand looking up any longer. "I couldn't think about anything else today, except how we failed you. How _I_ failed you."

Twelve weeks to bring in the first rapist; it had taken too long. That was why he'd been tormenting himself re-reading her file today, looking for anything he had missed at the time, something he could see with fresh eyes that had been overlooked months before. If Krieger had been arrested sooner, if they'd gotten his partner in the assault faster, maybe Sarah wouldn't have felt the need to go so public with her case. And maybe then that sorry excuse for a human being, William Lexner, would have left her alone, not become so obsessed with her "unhappiness" and how he could forcibly "correct" it.

"I feel like I should have brought something tonight, you know?" John said to the unresponsive concrete steps. He didn't really believe Sarah could hear him; he was doing this more for his own state of mind than anything else.

He could have—maybe should have—lit a candle for her, at home last night or here in remembrance. Should have looked up the Jewish calendar date for her yahrzeit, but truly the few remnants of faith he hadn't left far behind in Baltimore had shriveled up and died these past few years in New York. Sex crimes had a way of doing that, of robbing you of any possible belief in a higher power or greater _anything_ when there was so much pain, so much pointless, cruel suffering and misery in this world. You lived, you died, and in between you could try to do something good with your life, at least by helping others bear their torments. That was the way he'd come to see things; nothing else seemed to make much sense anymore.

So, no candle would be lit for Sarah, not here by him and probably not by her own family, wherever they were now. Certainly not by the brother of whom she'd said John reminded her, the brother who couldn't even be bothered to attend her funeral. Not by her parents who had seemed more ashamed of what had happened to their daughter and her not keeping it suitably "private" than they'd seemed upset by the fact that she was now dead.

And John had certainly not brought flowers to leave here tonight...anything _but_ flowers. He didn't even want to look across the street, toward the park where Lexner had stood waiting and watching that day. Just waiting for her to open the box of flowers he'd left for her, waiting for her to smile (no doubt thinking the flowers were from John, something else he'd tortured himself over endlessly) before pressing the button that had ended her life.

Perhaps it was simply enough that he was here, and that he remembered her today even if no one else did. Sarah Logan. Gutsy and eloquent. Strong and beautiful. A woman he could have loved, and maybe he had. Maybe he still did, and that's why he was here on this evening, talking to cold concrete steps.

A sixth sense—John's well-trained police sense—suddenly kicked in and pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to glance over his shoulder, quite certain that he was being watched.

He was correct. He spotted a familiar figure across the street yet down the block by a respectable distance. How and why that particular individual had tracked him down to this location, he had absolutely no clue...but he felt extremely glad in that moment that he had.

Hands in pockets, John walked slowly toward where his partner stood waiting. Fin was leaning against his parked car, and he nodded slightly at John as he approached. Beyond that he remained entirely cool in his entirely Fin way, not wanting to look too concerned. Not wanting to look as though he cared. Fin kept his gaze on a pothole in the street as John stepped in place next to him, resting against the side of the sedan. After a moment's respectful silence Fin said, "Shame what happened to that reporter."

"Yeah. A damn shame."

"You were close?"

"We could have been." John then had to ask, "How'd you...?"

Fin shrugged. "I got nosy. Raided your desk after you left today."

"You went through my things?"

"Don't worry, I didn't go snoopin' through everything. Why would anyone want to do that? I just snuck a look at that file you were going through all day, since you've been acting so weird lately. Weirder than normal, I mean. Anyway, I saw the date on the newspaper there, put two and two together, and took a guess on where I'd find you."

"Seems as if you're starting to unravel my mysteries, Detective Tutuola."

"You're not as mysterious as you sometimes think you are, Munch. You're just human."

John let Fin's observation linger in the air between them as the last rays of sunlight started to fade. He checked his watch. Almost time.

 _"The neighbors reported a single blast. Bomb squad got the call at 6:46. Arrived on the scene at 6:52."_  
 _"Six minutes?"_  
 _"It wouldn't have mattered."_

"We were waiting for her, at the tv studio that night," John recounted. "Producers assumed it was only traffic holding her up. She'd asked me to come on the air with her, to talk about the case and the shady games the defense was trying to pull to discredit her. She hoped we could draw out her second attacker, or someone who could identify him. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea, but...Captain said it was okay, and for Sarah I would do it. Especially since she'd promised me dinner after the interview.

"'Wear a nice suit and tie,' she'd said. At least I was dressed well for the news cameras when they descended on the scene."

 _"It's...it's just pieces. But I don't think she suffered much."_  
 _"She suffered."_  
 _"I meant she was killed instantly."_  
 _"I know what you mean."_

The sun eventually disappeared completely behind the tall buildings. A few pedestrians passed by as the two of them stood there in quiet contemplation for a few minutes longer. A young couple strolled past arm in arm, hurrying off to some special destination of their own; an older woman walked her small white poodle, scolding him to slow down and not run into the street; a group of teenage kids shouted and carried on, bragging about the game they'd just concluded in the park.

Life in the city went on. It always would. And at least John wasn't alone in recalling one of her fallen tonight.

"Thank you," John said at last, satisfied when he felt he could now move on.

Fin shrugged. "Thought you could use the company. Or at least a ride home."

"Actually, there's a place around the corner...Sarah and I had lunch there a few times while I was working with her on the case. I remember she told me it was her favorite in the neighborhood. Want to join me for dinner?"

"Is this some kind of fancy, expensive restaurant?"

"No. Why?"

"Then I'm buying. And you can tell me more about her."

Fin's cool facade cracked for a moment as he granted John one of his rare, surprisingly shy smiles. John returned the smile with gratitude as they headed off, leaving his darker thoughts and memories behind him, where they belonged.


End file.
